


Meet Cute But For Real This Time I Swear

by bigOwlEngery (Hecatetheviolet), Hecatetheviolet



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Before Jon becomes the Archivist, Fluff, Genre Savvy, M/M, Martin Wants His Romcom, Meet-Cute, Season 5 Martin Returns, Time Travel Fix-It, a dog - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26444008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecatetheviolet/pseuds/bigOwlEngery, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecatetheviolet/pseuds/Hecatetheviolet
Summary: This Jon has no scars.This is a Jon who has not thought himself injured beyond repair.This Jon is human.Martin could cry with the knowledge. Is this how it feels to behold the truth? To be choked on greatness, overwhelmed with the absolute relief of certainty? Martin could fall to his knees in worship of this image that some unknown god has granted to him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 27
Kudos: 334





	Meet Cute But For Real This Time I Swear

**Author's Note:**

> season 5 martin takes no prisoners. no time for season 1 nonsense; time to get his man

Martin rounds the corner to the alley behind the institute slowly, marveling at how little has changed. Cement walkway; garbage and recycling cans; dingy riverside facade; utilitarian patio tables and chairs, Jon seated at one; clean glass windows in the heavy wooden doors; a few scraggly trees… none of it had ever changed, not from Prentiss, not from the reveal of the rotten core it had hosted all along. Not from four years of terror and heartbreak and confusion and misery. Not from a second chance.

Wait. Jon?

Martin freezes, half hidden in the shade of a thin tree. Stares.

He. Had not prepared for this. Not yet. He should have a week before this, still. Martin has so many ideas on what to say, what to do. How to face Jon again, in this unfamiliar, familiar world.

The Jon sitting in the uncomfortable metal chair sits like his Jon sits: back straight and strong, cane resting at hand, feet square on the ground, hands light in his lap. Sitting just so, elegant and proper, in the porch swing with its rusty chains in the overgrown weeds of Daisy’s garden. Sitting with careful control at his old fashioned, dominating desk in the archives, chair pushed back enough to hide the low stool he rested his leg on on bad days. Sitting beside Martin on the train out of the central hub of their shared horror, somehow bearing the weight of Martin’s listing shoulder, one of his hands held lightly between both of his, rubbing warmth into his chilled skin.

This is how Jon sits; this is his familiar body language. The stillness that a lifetime of chronic pain encourages, the prim posture his courtly grandmother had instilled in him, the loose settle of his limbs in a half-forgetful pose of internal busyness. It’s exactly the same. But. The stark differences are so jarring that Martin can’t help but stare, caught.

This Jon’s face is smooth and clear. Not in the way of the full coverage makeup he’d taken to wearing after Prentiss scarred up the left side of his face, but with youth. This Jon has no scars. Martin drinks that in - the sight of a Jon who hasn’t known constant, unending horror. Dark eyes that don’t drill into the soul. A mouth that sits relaxed, no hint of strain. Skin free of tears and punctures and slits and cuts.

This is a Jon who has not thought himself injured beyond repair.

This Jon is human.

Martin could cry with the knowledge. Is this how it feels to behold the truth? To be choked on greatness, overwhelmed with the absolute relief of certainty? Martin could fall to his knees in worship of this image that some unknown god has granted to him.

Instead, he jumps, shocked out of his reverie, as something small shoots out of the bushes at the edge of the courtyard. He’s about halfway into a desperate dash forward before what he’s seeing solidifies and he freezes again. A small dog bounces up to Jon and sets its paws on his seat, nuzzling happily and yipping for pets.

A very small dog. A spaniel or a mutt or - _wait_. Martin knows this dog. Martin spent a horrible three hours cursing this dogs’ existence, in another life. He watches Jon pet it, glowing in the morning light, and thinks, _oh, you absolute bastard_ with dizzy fondness. For his Jon, who really was far too kind for his own good and even more defensive of it, in the beginning, and for this Jon now, who had set a small towel over his lap so the dog wouldn’t dirty his work clothes when he snuck out to pet it.

Bastard. God, if that smart, fussy man with the unfairly pretty face, severe glasses, and gorgeous natural hair had confessed to the Martin of another life that the dog had been so excited to get into the building because he’d been coddling it for a week - well. Martin’s then-ill-advised crush would have hit him like a train much, much sooner. Less an epiphany in the midst of horror and more of the stuff that made up romantic comedies.

Actually - this is lucky, then, isn’t it? This is a Jon who is not stressed and panicking and confused and helplessly out of his depth in the archives yet. This is Jon before all that nonsense. The Jon seated calm and serene before him is open and more welcoming to intrusion. To being found petting some stray and talking kindly to it. There’s less paranoia about authority and reputation or the pressure of constantly being surveyed and watched by an unkind god -

Martin takes in a bracing breath. Right. Change of plans; he can do this. He is Martin Blackwood - K. pending - and this is Jon from research. They’ve never met, but they work in the same building. They can have a normal conversation.

About the dog. Martin’s still amused by it, honestly. If he ever sees his Jon again, he will be teased thoroughly and without remorse.

He steps over the gravel just to make more noise and pretends to be looking up from his phone - the pre-Prentiss phone, with all his old pictures and a notesapp he’d immediately purged of all content and lacking Jon and Tim and Sasha’s contacts - and catches Jon as he looks up in surprise. His eyes are dark and deep and perfectly human. They don’t pierce into Martin’s like blades too large for the sockets or roam through his thoughts like warm water. They simply regard him with unconcerned startlement. Human and brown and beautiful.

How had Martin forgotten how lovely Jon’s eyes were, before the Beholding settled into them?

“Oh, um, is that - is that your dog, then?” Martin says, not faking his awkwardness in the least. Hopes it doesn’t sound like his heart is in his throat.

“Ah, no, I - I believe it is a stray,” Jon says. His voice is the same. The same as it would be toward any stranger - strict enunciation to avoid his stutter or being misunderstood, the stiffness of uncertainty, a withholding of judgement in his carefully curated tone. There is no love for Martin in that voice.

It’s odd, how easily he can tell the difference.

“Oh, good.” Says Martin, lifting his shopping bag in explanation. “I’ve been seeing it around, so I was going to give it some food and take it down to the shelter. Doesn’t need to be running about homeless when the weather’s turning.”

“Oh, yes, of course not,” Says Jon, his reluctance nearly hidden. The dog in question has its floppy ears perked towards Martin, but looks utterly content to rest in Jon’s lap and be petted. Martin kind of wants to join it.

His unscarred hands soothe through the soft fur shamelessly for a moment longer, then he eases a hand under the muzzle and starts to gently remove it.

“Well, then,” He begins, “Best leave you to it.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m in no hurry. It’s not even eight yet. Shelter isn’t open for a bit.” Martin rushes to reassure, reaching for the chair across from him. “Mind if I join you for a spell?”

“Oh, of course not.” There’s silence for a moment while Martin digs through the bag to keep himself from staring helplessly at Jon instead. Jon is quiet, but Martin knows him. Knows him well, for all that he never got to know this Jon.

So he fills the quiet lightly, without expecting too much. It’s so familiar he aches with it. Doesn’t say _I miss you_. Does say, “I’m actually off today, got a few errands to run. Meant to be here before this little rascal caused any trouble trying to get in the building again. It’s nice to know someone else was looking it out for him. I brought some food, but did you give him anything already? Don’t want to spoil him too much. Ah, have you been calling him anything? I’ve been saying Goldie, on account of the fur.”

“Oh, no,” Says Jon, easing into the conversation with the comfortable script of question-and-answer, “I’ve only brought treats, not much food. I couldn’t find smaller bags of it, so. And, ah…” That tone has Martin looking up like a sunflower to the sky, waiting, trying to keep the growing delight off his face at the sight of Jon’s slight fluster. He’s too dark to blush, but Martin isn’t. It’s so easy now, unfamiliar all over again, since this him hasn’t been muted by the Lonely. He does his best to ignore it happening, knows Jon will think something ridiculous like _sun exposure_ instead of the actual cause, anyway.

Jon clears his throat delicately. “I’ve taken to calling him Head Director.”

“No,” Martin gushes helplessly. “I love that.” God, that was exactly the sort of ridiculous, adorable shit he pulled in Scotland when Martin gently bullied him into walking near the cow fields, and then had promptly given Martin heart palpitations with the honest sincerity inherent in The Undersecretary and The Commodore as cow names. The kitten he’d smuggled into the cottage had been called The Good Lord of the House and Martin had damn near teared up about it.

Lord, he’s about to tear up now.

Strange, how little he’d noticed the deep welts the Lonely had left in him until they had suddenly disappeared. It’s wrong to think it, but somehow, this conversation has felt more real to Martin than many of the ones he had with his Jon lately. He feels so much more present. Forcibly so, but already the dissociation is so much lesser, the world cleaner, everything so much brighter and more hopeful -

It’s nearly overwhelming, how much Martin loves this man.

He breathes, he reels it all in tight, and he offers a smile. Sets the tupperware of kibble on the ground and offers his hand to Jon.

“It’s a less exciting name, but I’m Martin Blackwood. I work up in the library. I think I’ve seen you around. You’re Jon, right?”

“Yes,” Says Jon, reaching out easily with a hand unscarred from trusting too much, “I’m Jonathan Sims.”

Martin smiles, clasps his hand tight. “Glad to meet you.”


End file.
